


I'll Call You Tomorrow

by NinthFeather



Category: Kagerou Project, Mekakucity Actors
Genre: Adult Fear, Angst, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt No Comfort, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Suspense, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinthFeather/pseuds/NinthFeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against your better judgment, you let your son go to the city with a friend--and something goes wrong.  You find out over the phone.  </p><p>Amamiya Hibiya's mother, and a parent's nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Call You Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is written in second person. See the end for warnings and more notes.

It is late summer, and the air is warm and heavy with moisture.  When you inhale, it’s thick in your throat, coppery with the promise of rain but also tinged with the sour sharpness of cut grass.  Worse, it makes your clothing cling to your skin in a way that feels oddly suffocating.  The orange light splattered across the floor seems right for this sort of summer day, you think.

From the kitchen, you can hear your son whine, “It’s only a week, and Hiyori’s brother-in-law will be there!”

Even though you and your husband discussed it last night, you are still slightly surprised not to hear him roar, “No!” in response.

He bites out, “Fine, you can go,” and the cicadas sing in the distance as if this is any other summer evening.

You do not look up from the book you are reading.

You will hate yourself for this later.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You see your son and his friend to the train station.  You wish he would wear something a little more practical than a bone-white sweatshirt—it still smells faintly of bleach from the last time you had to wash it—but he’s trying to impress his would-be sweetheart and you suppose it’s normal for a child at his age.

Or perhaps as normal as Hibiya gets.  While he is gone, you are going to hide that doll of Hiyori he made and hope he forgets about it.  Surely he’s not foolish enough to take it with him.

Hiyori holds herself like a noblewoman in a period film, aloof and poised.  She’s too harsh-edged for your baby and you wish he’d realize, but your husband says nothing good will come of interfering beyond making sure that your son isn’t harassing the girl, and you’ve reluctantly agreed.

You hug him one last time before he boards, and that poor sweatshirt is soft beneath your fingers after all those washings.  His flyaway hair tickles your nose and smells faintly of soap.

He waves, once, from the window, as the train leaves, and you wave back even after he’s turned away to attempt conversation with Hiyori.

There is no premonition, no sense that something is about to go horribly wrong.  There is just the sound of the train leaving the station and some crows calling in the distance.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He calls a few hours after he arrives in Kaniwa City.  The phone line is edged with static but it can’t cover up the excitement and nervousness in your son’s voice.

“The city’s so _big_ , Mom!” he exclaims.  “I’ve never seen so many people _in my life_!”

“And Tokyo is even bigger,” you say, amused.

He is silent for a moment, awed by the concept.

“Hiyori’s brother-in-law must be busy, because we haven’t seen him much, but there’s another person staying here too.”

Your heart skips a beat.  That is hardly comforting.

“What sort of person?”  You mean it to be a question but it sounds like a demand when you say it.

“Uh, I think he’s a teenager?  We only saw him for, like, five minutes and then he went back in his room to take a nap.  He’s stupid.”

You wait for him to elaborate.

“He barely said anything to us and he sleeps all the time and he’s _weird_ and Hiyori think’s he’s _cute_!” your son whines, distressed.

 _Oh, jealousy_ , you think, comforted.  “Don’t be too worried about it,” you say soothingly.

“It’s not fair,” he says sulkily.  You imagine him crossing his arms.

“Just keep treating Hiyori nicely and I’m sure everything will turn out fine,” you say.

Hibiya makes a dismissive noise.

“Trust your mother on this one,” you say, smiling.  “Tomorrow, if you see him, tell Mr. Tateyama to stay nearby so I can talk to him, too.”

“Uh, sure,” Hibiya agrees, confused.

“Good-bye, dear,” you say.

“Bye, mom.”

:::::::::::

The next day dawns bright and clear and just as humid as the last few.  A coppery scent still hangs in the air, promising rain, and sure enough, it drizzles off and on through the morning.

If you hadn’t put out sheets to dry on the line yesterday, you’d be thankful for the rainfall.  As things stand, you’re a bit annoyed by it.

When it’s nearly time to start lunch, you have the small TV set in the kitchen playing as you get out pots and pans.  The faux-blonde onscreen is distracting, and you find yourself being pulled into the poorly written drama even as you try to focus on your task.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing jars you from your thoughts.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but I just wanted to call quick and let you know that I don’t think you’re going to get to talk to Mr. Tateyama,” your son says, unbothered by the poor news he’s bearing.

“What?” you ask.  “Why not?”

“We haven’t seen him around at all!” Hibiya said.  “There’s all these empty rooms on the second floor, but he wasn’t in any of them; I checked.”

 _Empty rooms?_ you repeat mentally, but choose to ask a different question aloud.

“He hasn’t been home _at all_?” you say.

“I-I’m sure he’s _here_ ,” your son says quickly.  “We just can’t find him for you to talk to.  He’s probably at work whenever we’re looking for him.  Hiyori says he’s a teacher so he must be pretty busy, right?”

“I suppose,” you say, deeply uneasy.

“Anyhow, Hiyori wants me to go to into town and buy something for her, so I need to leave soon,” Hibiya continues.  “But I wanted you to know what was happening.”

“I appreciate that,” you say.  “Be careful in the city, please.”

“I will be, I promise!” your son declares.

“Good.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He doesn’t.

The cicadas call and the clock ticks and television programs cycle through their normal schedule, one by one, marking off half-hours like they’re keeping time as well, but he never calls.

Your husband comes home from work and kisses you on the cheek, then asks, “How’s Hibiya?”

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, voice slightly choked.  “He hasn’t called.”

He is as worried as you are, and the scowl on his lips shouts, “ _We shouldn’t have let him go_ ,” even as he remains silent.

In the evening, you take initiative, and call Hibiya’s phone.  It rings out excruciatingly slowly, either turned off or broken.  You call the number Hiyori gave you for her brother-in-law’s house, but it rings out, again and again.

The Tokyo Police tell you that you need more than one missed check-in phone call to declare a person missing.

It is August 15th.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You worry through the next day.  Breakfast tastes bitter on your tongue, rice and miso soup equally nauseating when you just want to know that your son is safe.

Chores are automatic, nothing more. You can’t focus on anything.  You have all of the laundry folded before you really mentally register that you’ve finished doing it.

You imagine everything that could be going wrong.  By mid-afternoon you regret every crime novel you’ve ever read.

And then, it is late afternoon.  The house smells like dryer sheets and detergent, warm and clean, and it should be comforting, but it _isn’t._ You’re still sick, physically sick, with worry, and the ever-lengthening shadows stretching across the floorboards are a constant reminder that you don’t know what’s happening to your son.

The phone rings, shrill and loud and long, and your heart pounds in your chest.  You trip over the edge of the rug in your haste to pick it up, and fumble with the handset for a few moments before you get it to your ear.

“Mom?” is the first thing you hear, from a voice that is stretched-thin but unmistakably that of your son.

“Hibiya!” you all but shout into the handset.  “Are you all right?”

Your son is crying.  Your son is _miles_ away and he is sobbing like he hasn’t sobbed since he was six years old and he scraped his knee.  This is what you were afraid of.

There is a distinct sound of something brushing against the handset and then your son’s crying is replaced by the voice of an unfamiliar female.

“Hello, my name is Tateyama Ayano,” she says. “I’m Asahina Hiyori’s niece.  Hibiya’s had a rough time in the past two days, so I’m going to give him some time to calm down while I answer any questions you have.”

Ayano sounds older than Hiyori—but, she’s probably the daughter of that brother-in-law that Hibiya and Hiyori are staying with.  Except…Hiyori hadn’t mentioned the brother-in-law having children, and Hibiya hadn’t mentioned her in his last phone call, either.  So what is going on?

“I asked him if he was all right and he started crying,” you manage to ask.  “ _Is he all right?_ ”

“He isn’t hurt,” Ayano says.  “But he saw some pretty upsetting things, and I think he’s still recovering from that.”

“Upsetting?” you ask, throat dry enough to almost hurt.  “What happened?”

“There was—I—it’s hard to explain, and I wasn’t really around for all of it—” Ayano stammers.

“Well, then, let me talk to someone who was!” you snap, starting to get angry.  “Where is your father?”

Silence.  You are vaguely aware of your hands sweating as you clutch the phone.

Then, a soft, sniffling sound.  “He’s…he died,” Ayano says haltingly.

“He— _what?_ ”  you ask.  “Then—who’s watching my son?”

 _What_ happened _? What did Hibiya see?_ you wonder, frantic.

“My friend Shintarou is eighteen, he’s taking responsibility for Hibiya and Hiyori for now,” Ayano says, a bit more evenly.  “I’m helping, too, but I’m not sure if I count as a legal adult, even if I’m better with kids than he is.”

_What is going on over there?  Why are they acting like this is okay?_

“What about actual adults?”  you ask, trying to be calm.  Your heart thuds in your chest.  An eighteen-year-old you’ve never met is _not_ an appropriate chaperone.  “Someone’s parents, perhaps?”

“Shintarou’s mom is in the hospital, and his dad is dead,” Ayano says, apologetic.  “My parents are both—” she breaks off.  “Mary’s, too.  And before we ask Takane’s grandparents or Haruka’s family about watching anyone, we should probably tell them that their children are _alive_ and _found,_ oh heavens—”  her voice breaks off at a hysterical pitch.

“What is going on over there?” you find yourself screaming into the phone.

Muffled by distance from the speakers, you can hear someone saying, “Breathe, Ayano,” followed by the sounds of deep breaths.

Then, suddenly, more scuffling, and your son has the phone.

“I’m fine, Mom, really, but things are complicated,” Hibiya says, voice thick with tears, even now.  “I’ll call tomorrow.”

He hangs up.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You dial your husband’s work number seconds later.  Your hands are shaking as you do it, and you almost misdial twice.

“He called,” you breathe without preamble.

“Is he all right?” your husband asks.

You nearly burst into tears until you remember how much that terrified you when your son did it.  So you take a deep breath, compose yourself, and say, “He isn’t hurt.  Or in trouble.  But something happened.”

He says your name, slow and patient, waiting for a better explanation.

“Hiyori’s brother-in-law is _dead_ and Hibiya saw something awful but he won’t tell me anything!” you half-shout, and by the time you’ve managed to babble the rest of what’s happened into the phone your throat is raw and there are tears in your eyes, salty and stinging.

You breathe, slow and deep, once, twice, three times.  Then, you say, “We need to go get him.”

“Did he say where he was?” your husband asks.  “Where this ‘Shintarou’ lives?”

Your stomach drops as you realize that he didn’t.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This time, it’s early morning.  The kitchen is aglow with sunlight and you can see every speck of dust floating in the air.  The house smells musty.  Maybe you should clean after this.

The shrill ring sets your heart racing again.

This time, you are determined to be methodical.  You will find out who this Shintarou is and where you can find him and if he is not qualified to watch your baby boy you will bring said baby boy home.

“Hi Mom,” Hibiya says.  “Sorry about yesterday.  I was still kinda upset.  I’m okay now.  Really.”

You don’t believe him.  “Who is the person you’re staying with?” you ask.

“Shintarou?” he asks, confused.  “Um, I dunno, he’s maybe-in-love with the chick in the red scarf—um, Ayano, that is, she’s always wearing this scarf, and—uh, he likes soda and Vocaloid?”

“What is Vocaloid?” you ask.

“Y’know, I’m not really that sure either,” Hibiya says.  “I think maybe it’s a computer program.  Or an anime.  Or maybe a music thing?  It’s confusing and he’s bad at explaining cra—um, stuff.  Ayano says it’s ‘cause he’s a genius.” He pauses, then mutters, “He doesn’t seem like much of a genius to me.”

“Is he taking good care of you and Hiyori?” you ask, because, really, this is all tangential.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so?” he says, unsure.  “I mean, Ayano’s definitely helping out a lot because he seems kinda scared of us sometimes, but yeah.”

“Scared of you?” you ask, confused.

“Ayano says he’s bad at people,” he explains.  “Ene says he’s a recluse.  I think she’s being more honest.”

“Who is Ene?”  you ask.  That’s a very familiar nickname for your son to be using with a girl who isn’t Hiyori.

“A friend of Shintarou’s,” Hibiya says.  “She’s cool.  She even knows how to shoot a gun but she says she won’t teach me.”

A gun.  How on Earth does your son know that one of his erstwhile caretaker’s friends knows how to shoot a gun? Did he see her shoot someone? Are these people _yakuza_?  This is Japan; guns are illegal—you need to find out where Shintarou lives _now_.

“ _Don’t just tell her that!_ ” shouts a muffled male voice.

“Where does Shintarou live?” you demand icily, gripping the handset tightly enough that you feels your fingers begin to cramp.

“I-I don’t have the address memorized,” Hibiya says, uncertain.  “Mom, why are you asking?”

“ _She wants to come and bring you home, dork,_ ” the male voice says, even more muffled.

“What!” Hibiya all but screeches, sending a crackle of electricity through the handset.  “No, no you can’t!  You can’t come here, you _can’t!_ It’s not safe!  What if something happens, what if you get hurt, what if—”

Your son is terrified and you have no idea what to do for him. This is awful.

“ _Okay, kid, just calm down, nothing’s gonna happen to her, it’s all over now, he’s gone, I promise, I am_ so _not cut out for this—”_ the male voice breaks off, and then rises in volume.  “ _Oi, Ene, get down here!  The kid’s freaking out again and you’re better at this crap than I am--”_

An even more distant voice, female and irate, replies, “ _She’s asleep, stupid brother!”_

Meanwhile, you can hear your son hyperventilating.  You want to say something, but you don’t even know why he’s upset.  You’ve gone on longer trips, and he’s barely worried.

You never even knew what Hibiya sounded like when he hyperventilated. Now, the sound is becoming familiar.

“ _Stupid freakin’ narcoleptic computer virus_ ,” the male voice mumbles to itself, getting ever-closer to the handset as it makes less and less sense.  “ _Okay, kid, focus on your breathing, in and out.  Put your hands over your mouth if it helps.  I gotta talk to your mom._ ”

And then, with a bit of scuffling, it’s that voice you’re talking to.  “Kisaragi Shintarou,” it—Shintarou—says, grumpily.  “I’ll give you my address as soon as I’m sure it won’t make his panic attack worse.”

“You—what?” you ask, at a loss.  You still don’t know why the idea of your coming to city would terrify your son so.  “Why would giving me an address—”

“He’s having a panic attack, and the idea of you coming to the city is scaring him him” Shintarou says.  “He needs a chance to calm down, which you _aren’t_ giving him, so shut up, would you?”

“Excuse me, what do you know about—” you snap, because, really, this boy cannot be any sort of psychiatrist.

There is an unpleasant edge to Shintarou’s answering laugh, and it makes your insides twist.  “Ms. Amamiya, I know just about as much as anyone wants to know about mental illness and the last thing he needs is repeated mentions of the thing that triggered the attack in the first place.”

“Can I do anything?” you ask, still angry at his tone but also desperate, enough so even to ask advice from this complete stranger with his harsh laugh and foul mouth.

“For now, all we can do is wait it out and make sure he knows he’s safe when he comes out of it,” Shintarou said.  “And when he gets home, you should take him to a psychologist.  I hope for his sake that all of this is a temporary reaction to some really intense, stressful crap, but if any of it’s lasting—he might need treatment.”

 _Treatment_ , you think, overwhelmed.  “What happened, really?  He hasn’t told me.”

“And I don’t want to tell you without his permission,” Shintarou says firmly.  “But it—it wasn’t good.  Not even this time.  And this time was the best way it could’ve possibly— _ugh_ , why do I even try to talk to people!”  He growls, frustrated, and there’s a muffled bang, like he’s hit something.

You jump at the noise, and then, at a sudden voice.

“ _You’re really crappy at it_ ,” your son’s voice remarks, faintly.

“Can it, midget,” Shintarou snaps, but there’s affection in his tone.  “Are you up to talking to your mom a little more?”

“ _Um?_ ” Hibiya says.

“You don’t have to pretend to be brave for my sister and you _really_ don’t have to do it for me, okay?” Shintarou says.  “I bet your mom can hear you from there, can’t you, Ms. Amamiya?”

“I can,” you say.

“So you know he’s back in the land of the mostly-aware,” Shintarou says.  “He’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hangs up.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

That afternoon, you scrub the house from top to bottom and tell yourself that it’s the sharp, chemical smell of the cleaning solution and not the thought of recounting today’s phone call to your husband that’s making you nauseous.

You wait until he gets home.  It’s probably one of your better decisions.

“I knew sending him to Kaniwa City was dangerous!” he shouts.  “We never should’ve allowed it!”

You are suddenly furious.  “You were the one who said we should reward his persistence somehow!” you scream back.  “Now look what’s happened!”

You argue for over an hour and he goes to the bedroom early, furious.  Maybe he’ll sleep, maybe he’ll watch some insipid drama program and try to ignore what’s happening.  You don’t care either way.

You stay up to research panic attacks.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It is eleven at night.  The cicadas sing loud and long and the cooling fans in your ancient desktop hum along, a flat harmony to their melody.

Your eyes sting from staring at the screen for far too long, but it doesn’t matter.  If you close them the words will still hang in front of your eyes.

Some of the websites describe a panic attack as _the worst fear you’ve felt in your life_.  You made your son feel that.

There are medicines, thank heaven.  Medicines and therapies, that a psychologist can prescribe if it turns out that he has Panic Disorder and this wasn’t just an isolated incident—which is apparently a possibility as well.  People all over the world live full, healthy lives while they have the disorder.

But there are also a few videos of panic attacks, and you make the mistake of clicking on one.  It would be distressing enough if it were just the idea of your son going through this.  It is worse to think that the thing that caused it—the _trigger_ , the sites called it—was you, talking about travelling to Kaniwa City to get him.

When you turn off the computer at 1 a.m., and lie down on a futon sticky with summer humidity, you know it’s not the heat that keeps you from sleeping soundly.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The kitchen is soaked in pale early-morning sunlight and the thick, salty scent of cooking miso soup when your husband walks out into the kitchen, his eyes firmly cast down, and says, “I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” you say.

You both eat breakfast in silence, unsure of what else to say, until you realize that the miso soup is still on the stove and it is slowly burning.  The smoky-sour smell permeates the house and your husband wrinkles his nose at it in that particular way of his.

Hibiya inherited that from him.  You end up laughing a bit hysterically as he helps you slowly pour the ruined soup down the drain.

You kiss him lightly on the cheek as he walks out the door, and the phone rings not more than a minute later.

“Mom,” Hibiya says, voice worn.

“Hibiya!” you say, cheered to hear him despite his worrying tone.  “Good morning!”

He makes a sort of dissatisfied grunting noise, then says, “I’m coming home tomorrow.”

The phone becomes suddenly slippery—or maybe it’s just that you’re surprised enough to lose your grip?  Either way, you nearly drop it.  Has it really been a week?

You glance at the wall calendar.   _Look at that, it actually_ has _been._

“Ayano and Ene are coming with us, to make sure we’re safe,” he adds, a bit more softly.  “So you can meet them.”

“Not Shintarou, though?” you ask, still anxious to meet the abrasive stranger who has been technically responsible for your son.

“I think he’d pass out if he was on a train that long,” you son says.  “He wouldn’t be any help.  But Ene’s good at, uh, when people are nervous and stuff, and so’s Ayano.”

His voice is hesitant and it’s painful to hear. You want to ask what happened again, but you’re now certain that he won’t answer you.  Not without panicking.

“Well, then, I’ll look forward to meeting them,” you say.  You have a thought.  “Whatever happened to the older boy who was staying with you?”

“Uh— _oh,_ ”  Hibiya’s voice drops off as though it’s fallen from some great height.  “Konoha.”

“That’s an odd name,” you remark.

“He was odd,” Hibiya says, uncharacteristically quiet again.  “It fit.”

You notice that he’s using past tense and your stomach drops.  Surely you’re jumping to the wrong conclusions, though.  Surely, he isn’t—

“In the end, _he_ was the one who saved Hiyori,” Hibiya said.  “I tried over and over and over but I couldn’t do anything, and he just—it still isn’t fair!”

It’s nearly the same whine as last time he said that, but there’s something deeper and more desperate to it, now.  The edge to your son’s voice as he repeats _over and over and over_ frightens you as well.

“I shouldn’t be jealous,” he finishes.  “I’m still here.  But—I wanted to save her.  I wanted to save her _so much_.”

The raw desperation in his tone is enough to make you flinch this time.

“What happened to Hiyori?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

His silence stretches, and the soft whir of your aging refrigerator suddenly sounds deafeningly loud.

“I-I can’t,” he says, and his voice breaks.  “Bye, Mom.”

After the jarring click of the phone against its cradle, you don’t move for a few seconds.  You just stand there, your own breath loud in your ears as you stare at the gleaming-white wall in front of you like it holds some sort of answer.  Like it can explain what happened to Hiyori and Konoha and your son’s innocence.

Things haven’t gotten quite that odd yet, though.  The wall offers no answers.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You tell your husband that Hibiya is coming home over dinner, with a smile on your face that isn’t quite as real as you’d like.  You can tell that the one he answers with is just as forced.

The rest of the awful, confusing conversation is harder to relate, and as you speak, the slabs of _tonkatsu_ on your plates cool and its hearty smell sours and fades until you want to open the windows and air out the house.  Neither of you have finished more than half of your portions.

The cicadas outside might well be screaming.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

You spend the next morning cleaning the house obsessively.  The ghost of the _tonkatsu_ ’s smell is exorcised, the floors and walls are brilliantly spotless, and a faint scent of bleach hangs in the air.

If you stop sweeping or mopping or scrubbing for a second, you’ll have time to think.  And you’re quite sure you shouldn’t have that.

It’s something like 12:30 when a knock at the door startles you so badly that the broom in your hands clatters to the ground.  You practically stumble on the way to the door and then fling it open to see your son standing there.

It has only been a week but you’re certain he is thinner than he was.  The circles under his eyes are new as well—though perhaps, you have some of your own to match, after a week of worrying.  He looks nervous, as though he’s preparing to run at any moment.

Before he can, you wrap him in a hug.

He stiffens, then leans forward, gripping you tightly.  There is moisture soaking into your shirt and his shoulders are shaking; you know but don’t want to contemplate too deeply the meaning of these things.  You squeeze him gently and look up.

Placid brown eyes meet yours, set in a face far too calm for the situation at hand.  This girl, her brown hair hanging limply in the humid summer air, has the eyes of an old woman and the smile on her lips is not enough to belie their weight.  The breeze catches the folds of her white sundress as she holds your gaze.

“Hello, Ms. Amamiya,” she says.

You recognize the voice.  So this is Ayano.

Next to her, a girl of roughly the same age, with darker hair pulled up into pigtails, rubs absently at the sleeve of her ragged black sweatshirt.  There are deep shadows under her narrowed eyes.  You have the vague sense that she is annoyed but you are not sure if you, your son, or something else entirely is the cause.

“This is Enomoto Takane,” Ayano says, gesturing toward the girl in pigtails.  The stranger in pigtails, you should say, since Hiyori is here, too.

The circles beneath her eyes are fainter, but they are there. Was she always so fidgety?  You don’t remember.

“Thank you for bringing them home,” you say carefully.

Ayano inclines her head.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more,” she says.

Hibiya detaches himself from your waist, rubbing at his eyes and purposefully avoiding Hiyori’s line of sight.  She glances towards him and snorts derisively.

“We, uh, gave Hibiya our phone numbers, so if he needs somebody to talk to…” Takane stumbles over the words, voice uncertain, her expression softened somewhat by movement.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Yourselves and…Shintarou?” you ask.

“And a few other people,” Ayano says.  “My siblings have a club.  Hibiya met everyone while he was in Kaniwa City, and they’re all really going to miss him…it would be nice if you let them stay in touch.”

You steel yourself.  “Ayano, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for my twelve-year-old son to be staying in touch with a group of older children I’ve never even met.”

Ayano’s face falls, and Takane’s eyes narrow, but it’s your son who speaks.

“Mom, they’re _good_ , really,” he says.  “They’re my friends.  I want to stay in touch with them, so please—”

“Hibiya, you barely know them,” you say flatly.

“ _They saved my life!_ ” Hibiya spits.

Your breath catches in your throat.  You look to Ayano and Takane for confirmation; Ayano’s placid smile is back but much more strained while Takane is flinching outright.  Hiyori’s eyes are fixed on the ground.

“Hibiya?” you ask.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” he says, crossing his arms defensively and angling his head away from you.  “B-but, he had…there was a _gun_ , okay, and he was going to use it, I know he was going to, and if Shintarou and Ayano hadn’t—”

You pull him towards you again, and feel him shaking in your embrace.  “Is that what happened?” you ask Ayano, managing not to let your voice waver too much.

Your stomach churns in horror when she nods, mouth thinning to a grim line.

Takane puts a hand on Hiyori’s shoulder.  “Hiyori didn’t know,” the older girl says, looking away from you.  “But it wasn’t a good idea for her and Hibiya to stay with Mr. Tateyama.”

Surprised, you look to Ayano, even as you begin rubbing your now-sobbing child’s back.

“It really wasn’t, not for anyone,” she says, voice soft.   Even downcast, her eyes are bright.  “Not at that point.”

Yards away, on the main road, an eighteen-wheeler barrels past, horn blaring.  Your son and Hiyori both flinch at the noise, and Ayano’s expression only becomes sadder.

“If we don’t get Hiyori home soon, we’ll miss the train,” Takane says gently.

Ayano nods.  “Hibiya, stay in touch, okay? I know Shintarou wants to hear from you.”

“You’re lying,” Hibiya accuses as he pulls away from you to face her, voice still thick with tears.

“I’m not my brother,” Ayano says, with a soft laugh.  For some reason, Hibiya finds this amusing as well, and the two of them end up laughing for some time as the summer wind catches the folds of their clothing.

You are stung, somewhat, by the realization that you may never fully understand your son’s connection with this girl.  That you may never know exactly what happened in Kaniwa City, when everyone involved in it seems too traumatized to speak at length of what hurt your son.

You catch Takane’s eyes as she leads Hiyori away.  “Is there a police report?” you ask.

Her harsh expression softens again as she shakes her head. “Not about what you want to know,” she says.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When your husband comes home there are more hugs, and there is more sobbing.  All three of you are content to call an end to day trips for quite some time.

Your husband tries to ask what happened as well.  He has no more luck than you did.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Every morning, your son wakes up with bags beneath his eyes and nudges pickled vegetables around his breakfast plate with his chopsticks, rarely taking more than a few bites.

He gets teased at school for being afraid of cats and still can’t go too close to the main road without flinching every time a particularly loud truck goes by.  He won’t explain why.

The Hibiya who asked to leave on that humidity-soaked summer night never comes home.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for discussions of panic attacks…is vague feeling of dread throughout a warning?
> 
> Depending on the canon, Hibiya’s parents either own a farm or a dojo. This story is set in the anime timeline, where it’s never stated, and assumes that it’s a dojo, one separate from the house, so that Hibiya’s mother is home alone during the day while his father teaches classes.
> 
> This oneshot grew out of the question: “What the heck did Hibiya’s parents think happened during that week?” Because there’s no way Hibiya didn’t come back different, and the Amamiya parents were pretty opposed to him going to the city in the first place.


End file.
